Chasing Chickens to Help Her Husband – a Pair of Mail Order Bride Romances

Summary

Mail Order Bride: Turmoil Tilly From London & The Chicken, is about an independent spark of a woman from London, suddenly deciding to become a mail order bride and live in the Old West. The trouble is...she has no clue how to cook, clean house, or even get along with another human being within the closeness that marriage brings; let alone learn the ‘farm to table’ philosophy that will feed them both.

Mail Order Bride: The Rancher's Bull, is about a Victorian woman who decides to travel to the lawless US West after losing her estate in England to a ruthless neighbor. She can take care of herself, but was not prepared for her new life and the handsome ranch owner who greeted her, just as she was about to be dropped off from her stagecoach while trying to escape the large Longhorn bull about to ram them all into oblivion.

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Chasing Chickens to Help Her Husband – a Pair of Mail Order Bride Romances - Doreen Milstead

Chasing Chickens To Help Her Husband – a Pair of Mail Order Bride Romances

By

Doreen Milstead

Copyright 2015 Susan Hart

Mail Order Bride: Turmoil Tilly From London & The Chicken

Synopsis: Mail Order Bride: Turmoil Tilly From London & The Chicken, is about an independent spark of a woman from London, suddenly deciding to become a mail order bride and live in the Old West. The trouble is...she has no clue how to cook, clean house, or even get along with another human being within the closeness that marriage brings; let alone learn the ‘farm to table’ philosophy that will feed them both.

From her vantage point in the window of her upstairs bedroom, Tilly saw the mailman put a stack of letters into the mailbox at the end of their stone bordered driveway. She gathered her skirts about her and set out into the hallway, down the long staircase and out the front door, the gaping hole left by the unclosed piece of heavy mahogany an invitation to the damp air of a London day.

I hope its there, she breathlessly said to herself. For weeks, Tilly had covered this same course in search of a letter from the United States; a letter that she hoped would change her life of sameness and boredom. More than anything else, she hoped it would give her reprieve from the desire to strangle her overbearing mother, which was rooted in the perils of being an only child.

She closed her eyes and removed the loosely tied bundle of letters and such from the mailbox. The little prayer issued underneath those closed eyes was a daily repetition, which so far, hadn’t worked. Her patience and her faith were wearing thin.

Even with a throbbing heart and a pent-up desire to flip through the letters, Tippy punished her impatience and waited until she was inside again with the door closed behind her. Beside the hall table, she untied the piece of burlap string that the fastidious postman always used. She lifted the first three pieces of mail addressed to her highly esteemed father, expecting that the rest of the stack would also bear his name.

But, today was different. The fifth letter was addressed to her in a scrawled, manly handwriting. She pulled it close to her chest and waited for some telltale sign of what the letter might say. None came. In her fairytale leaning mind, Tilly imagined a life of romance the likes of which would cause Cinderella to feel shortchanged. And, she thought signs of such a life could be felt exponentially through the thickness of an envelope or the signs of prospective adventure that came to her through dreams.

In short, Tilly had a vivid imagination and a restless spirit, the combination of which had led her to this day and this letter.

Up the stairs she fled, two steps at a time, but halfway up, her toe missed the riser, sending her grabbing for the ornate banister to prevent a terrible fall.

Slow down, Turmoil Tilly, her mother said from behind her. One of the days you’re going to break your neck. And, girlie, you’re really a little too old to be doing that anymore. Walk like a lady and act your age.

Yes, Mum, she said, continuing her gait up the stairs, the answer just another robotic reply to the mother hen of her twenty-five years. In the upstairs hallway, Tilly ran to her room and locked the door behind her to prevent her mother or anyone else from interrupting this moment she had dreamt of since her own letter left the same mailbox in which this one had arrived. Today was a monumental day for her, and Tilly didn’t want to share it.

Not yet.

She made a formal affair of tending to the letter. First, Tilly sat in her desk chair next to the window and held the letter close to her heart. Closing her eyes again, she tried her best to will the contents to be what suited her, but in reality, Tilly knew this tomfoolery didn’t work. Her life proved it repeatedly. She laid the letter on the desk, face down, and readied herself by sitting upright, prim and poised. She cleared her throat and straightened the lap of her dress just so. When everything was as she wanted, Tilly turned over the envelope with one hand, which she promptly placed in her lap on top of the other hand resting there. She cleared her throat although no words would be spoken. Another formality she habited.

Tilly stared at the handwriting and studied the rough longhand and slanted lines, wondering how the envelope had been placed on a writing surface - tilted upward or perhaps straight, but the writer could not write a straight line. She would have to look that up to make sure it didn’t mean anything that she should consider.

‘Miss Matilda Adcock’ read the first line. Tilly looked out the window and contemplated the name - her full and formal name. She didn’t have a middle name. ‘You didn’t need a middle name,’ her mother had told her in answer to the thousand times Tilly had asked the same question. Why not? had always followed that answer, but the mystery had never been solved.

Tilly wanted a middle name, and in recent years of deciding to become an independent young woman, she had resolved to find herself a middle name soon, and to force her parents to amend her certificate of birth to include that name. But, that could wait. Today, this letter had come. And she needed to concentrate on it.

Just it, for now.

Tilly fingered the envelope, the new vessel by which mailed letters were now sent. At least it was a sign that the sender was up with the times in 1850, or that the sender knew someone who was. That was a good sign to Tilly because if her plan worked out, it was obvious that some modern conveniences did exist where she might be headed. She picked up the ivory handled letter opener that used to belong to her grandmother; one piece of a seven-piece desk set that had been left to Tilly.

The silver opener slid effortlessly along the crease at the top of the envelope. Taking a deep breath, her fingers reached inside to bring out the one, tri-folded piece of paper. Tilly laid it on the desk and put her hands in her lap, willing the contents of the paper to say what she wanted desperately for it to say. She lifted it up and unfolded the page. Slowly, her eyes trailed along the lines of longhand, which matched that on the envelope. Her heart beat wildly as she read:

April 1, 1850

Dear Miss Matilda Adcock,

Thank you for your letter and application in response to my advertisement for